Chapter 1

People said that even a bird flying in the sky would fall if it met the Middle Secretariat Minister’s illegitimate daughter, a girl better known not by her name, Soran, but by her nicknames: “the dull one,” “the premature weakling.”

“Don’t they say she just smiles stupidly no matter how harshly people talk to her?”

“She may be the minister’s daughter, but even the household maids live better than she does.”

Whenever two people gathered, they would whisper about her.

“Well, of course. She was born to the minister’s concubine’s maid. Imagine how much that wounded Lady Munhyeon’s pride.”

“Her mother ran away, and the child who was left behind suffered all the cold treatment. They say she wakes earlier than the maids and sleeps later than them.”

“I saw her a few days ago when she was running an errand. She looked so shabby. No one would believe she’s the minister’s daughter.”

“I saw her too! She smiled at me so brightly. Really—what on earth is there to smile about? No wonder they call her dull.”

“She was born before ten full months. Of course, she’d be lacking. Probably lacking in everything.”

A man clicked his tongue and then lowered his voice.

“Lady Munhyeon must have bullied that pregnant maid terribly for the baby to come out early. You can tell without even seeing it.”

“And the minister pretends she doesn’t exist, right?”

“Of course. Lady Munhyeon—”

The man stopped speaking mid-sentence.
He glanced nervously toward the direction of the palace.

With the queen behind her, Lady Munhyeon wielded great power. Everyone quietly agreed with the man.

Because of that, the minister’s daughter washed laundry in the dead of winter and stoked the kitchen fires in the middle of summer. She endured all the abuse with a smile, so the nickname “the dull one” suited her all too well.

“Hey, dull one.”

“Yes, sister.”

Soran, who had been sweeping the yard, grabbed her broom and ran over. If she was even a little slow, she’d get scolded immediately.

She smiled brightly at Sehwa, looking up at her.

“You called for me, sister?”

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not your sister? I’ve never had such a stupid little sister. You’re just a maid.”

With a sharp tone, Sehwa took off one of her embroidered shoes and threw it at Soran.

“Ow!”

The shoe hit her cheek. Soran flinched.

“So slow.”

Sehwa didn’t look sorry at all. She simply narrowed her eyes.

“What? Does it hurt?”

Soran quickly shook her head.

“No.”

If she said yes, she would only be mocked more—and she might even be denied dinner.

“Then smile. People will think I’m bullying you.”

“Yes, si—”

Soran swallowed the word “sister” and forced a grin as she picked up the shoe. It was a pretty pink shoe embroidered with red peonies.

“Hehe…”

“I’m going out today, so polish them clean. If I see even a speck of dust, you’ll regret it.”

“…Yes.”

Soran smiled again, her round eyes folding softly. Sehwa turned and walked back into her room.

“Phew…”

Only then did Soran finally exhale and sit on the step. She pulled up her sleeve and started brushing the dust off the shoe.

The thing she feared most in the world was being told she’d miss dinner.

The room door slammed shut. Then came the sly whisper of Samdeok, Sehwa’s maid.

“Don’t be upset, miss. Soran’s always like that.”

“That’s why I’m upset.”

“If you stay angry, wrinkles will form on your pretty face. What about this hairpin? It’s fancy—perfect for you. If you wear it today, all the village men will stare at you.”

A musty smell drifted out from the room—thick and stale, like old fermented bean paste.

Samdeok was lying, as always.

But Sehwa didn’t notice.

“If only that dull girl had half your sense.”

“Oh, miss, she’s called dull for a reason. There’s no way she’ll ever be like me.”

“That’s true.”

Both women burst into giggles.

Soran pretended not to hear and kept polishing the shoe.

“Samdeok, that wicked girl.”

Suddenly someone muttered. Soran lifted her head and saw Paju-auntie, carrying a basket of laundry.

Glaring at the closed door, she grumbled.

“She may be the minister’s daughter, but look at that girl’s attitude. Completely spoiled.”

Soran gave a small, embarrassed smile.

Honestly, she had lived like this since birth—so she no longer felt especially angry or wronged.

When she was younger, she had longed for her father’s affection.

Back when she first learned she wasn’t a complete orphan…

—I have a father too!

She once waited for days near the main house, hoping to see him. And finally, she did—Minister Jungseoryeong himself returning home.

Little Soran, cheeks flushed, had looked up at him like a wet, shining pebble.

That is my father. My real father…!

But the minister glanced at her indifferently and turned away, as if she were a stranger.

“…”

She had never expected a warm hug or sweet words.

She had only wanted him to look at her gently.

Even that had been too much.

Remembering that disappointment, Soran smiled bitterly. She knew now that she was nothing like Sehwa. If she didn’t expect anything, she wouldn’t be hurt.

She straightened her face and spoke cheerfully.

“I’m fine, auntie.”

“Don’t worry, young miss. People who do bad things always get punished eventually. Even if others don’t see, the heavens do.”

Heaven’s punishment?

She didn’t need anything so grand.
She only wanted her life to be a little less difficult.

Three meals a day.
A chance to sleep without fear.

And… roasted rice crust. Crispy, golden nurungji.

Her eyes widened, remembering something important.

White rice was a luxury she never had.

But nurungji?
If she could eat that every day, she’d have no complaints. Hot, cold, plain—nurungji was always delicious.

Whenever she upset Lady Munhyeon and got her dinner taken away, Paju-auntie would sneak some nurungji under her blanket. Eating it quietly at night made not only the hunger but even the loneliness fade.

Her cold father.
The mother who ran away.
All the sadness in between.

“Nasty people like Samdeok always get what they deserve someday. Remember everything, then repay her when your situation improves.”

Soran looked down and smiled bashfully.

Paju-auntie understood the meaning of that smile.

“People’s fortunes change. Don’t forget that.”

Soran lifted her head slowly. Her dark eyes shone with warmth.

“You’re the only one who calls me ‘young miss.’”

“Of course I call you that. Would you prefer I call you young master?”

Her blunt reply made Soran smile brightly—brighter than the embroidered shoe in her hands.

Paju-auntie always smelled faintly yellow—like the scent of well-ripened sympathy.

“I’ll finish cleaning the shoes and go to the laundry place.”

“No need. It’s just a few pieces, I’ll finish quickly. Go to the kitchen. There’s nurungji in the pot—”